Baby Fever
by simplyshelbs16
Summary: Post-TFP. Written for the 3 year anniversary of the ILY scene. Sherlock Holmes, now married to Molly, contracts baby fever after a day of watching Rosie. He then leaves 'subtle' hints to catch his wife's attention, but it just comes off as strange behaviour.


**"Now a new study in the psychological journal, Emotion, claims that "baby fever"—that sudden, visceral, and almost irresistible urge to have a baby—not only exists, but it can be found in both men and women."**

**-Diane Mapes, NBC News, August 2011**

* * *

Three years. It had been three blissful—sometimes frustrating—years since the Sherrinford incident. Sherlock Holmes had married Molly Hooper two and a half years ago, and he still marveled at the fact she was his wife. He often wondered how he managed to not muck everything up. Lately, though, he felt as if something was missing, but he couldn't quite place what it was. It wasn't until a lazy Sunday afternoon that he figured it out. It was a rare day when Molly had the day off and he had no (interesting) cases. John had asked if they'd watch Rosie for a bit, which they happily agreed to. It had been a while since they were able to spend time with her together rather than separately.

"Unca Wock!" Rosie wriggled to be free from John's hold. When he didn't release her immediately, she glared at him. "Daddy, put me down."

Sherlock was clearly holding back his laughter, an amused smile gracing his face. As soon as her feet touched the ground, Rosie ran toward him with her arms open, and he knelt on the ground to receive one of her hugs that she loved to give so much. _She got that from Molly_, he mused, realising just how much impact they all had on her upbringing. Speaking of Molly, she had appeared from within the bathroom after having taken a shower. She was in an old faded tee shirt and a pair of worn jeans, and left down her hair, which was curling from the dampness.

Rosie's attention turned toward her godmother, whose face lit up at the sight of her. "Aunt Mowwy!"

"My darling Rosie!" Molly exclaimed, meeting her goddaughter halfway for a hug. "You get bigger every time I see you!"

"I'm a big girl!" Rosie proclaimed proudly.

Molly laughed sweetly, the sound music to Sherlock's ears.

John observed his friend, realising that the wheels were turning in his mind. The detective looked puzzled as he watched his wife interact with their goddaughter. Then suddenly, everything clicked, his face softening from the epiphany. It was easy for John to figure out what was happening, as this was a very human reaction to the scene before them. Sherlock Holmes wanted to have a child of his own with Molly.

* * *

Sherlock wanted children…badly. He hadn't a clue how he contracted baby fever. Thoughts of starting a family with Molly plagued him ever since the day they watched Rosie. That was two weeks ago. Everything had been going spectacularly well between them. Sure, they had a few bumps and bruises that the Sherrinford incident caused, but it was nothing they couldn't overcome.

He had thought of several ways to bring up the topic to his wife, but each time he tried, nothing came out. Did Molly even want children? She certainly never indicated it. Today, he decided, he would tell her, no holding back.

"Hello Molly," Sherlock greeted her cheerfully as he entered the morgue. She had just finished an autopsy. Her eyes lit up when she heard his voice.

"Hello to you too! You're suspiciously chipper today," she remarked whilst she dried her hands. Upon turning around to face him, she noticed the small bouquet of vibrant blue cornflowers in his hand. "Are those for me?"

"These?" Sherlock asked. "No, I just carry them around for aroma therapy…but if you want them…" He held out the flowers to her. He wondered if she would notice the significance; cornflowers signified fertility.

She laughed, taking the offered bouquet. There wasn't a vase nearby, so she cut the stems at an angle, and slipped them inside a clean graduated cylinder. "Are you on a case?"

"No, I just, um—well, I suppose you could call it that," Sherlock stammered. The words were not coming easily. "I wanted to…talk to you, actually."

Molly looked at him curiously. "What about?"

This was it. All he'd have to do is tell her; it was that simple. "Well, I was wondering how—" Uh oh. The words were lost on him. "How you're doing on that essay…for that supposed prestigious medical journal?" Oh God, this was bad.

Molly laid a hand on his arm in concern. "Sherlock, I finished that last month. It was in this month's issue. Are you feeling okay?" He looked a bit woozy. She knew that wasn't what he was going to ask, but whatever it was, he was obviously nervous about it. He'd ask when he was properly ready, she decided. "Maybe you should go have a lie down."

Sherlock silently agreed, hopping up on the freshly clean autopsy table. A sigh escaped Molly's lips. She'd have to clean that again once he got up. His little eccentricities made her adore him all the more. If having to disinfect the autopsy table again was the price for her husband's strange behaviours, it was one she was willing to pay.

* * *

"Sherlock," John spoke firmly, "why don't you just tell her, mate?"

He sighed. "Don't you think I've tried to?" He ran a hand through his curls in frustration. "Every time I try to tell her, nothing comes out. I become speechless."

John puzzled at this. "So you're, what? Just gonna keep making a spectacle of yourself?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Quite possibly, yes." An idea dawned on him. "Our anniversary's coming up."

"Sherlock, your wedding anniversary isn't until September," John pointed out. "It's only January."

"Exactly," Sherlock remarked. "In three days, it will be the anniversary of when I told Molly I loved her and vice versa."

"But that was under duress!" John argued.

"It doesn't mean I meant it any less," Sherlock retorted. "Instead of telling her, I'll just show her."

John shook his head in dismay. Molly was going to have her hands full.

* * *

Molly Holmes was beginning to worry about her husband. Each week since his visit in the morgue, she had come home to find some interesting items lying about the flat. Just last week, she had caught Sherlock reading through a collection of brand new Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys novels. The week before that, she had found a couple of baby toys.

"It's for a case," he had told her.

Now, however, it was their three year anniversary since the phone call, and she wondered what she would discover. If nothing, then the night was sure to be another unforgettable one. On the nights they made love, Sherlock was exceptionally even more passionate than usual, which was sometimes overwhelming for Molly, but in the best way. She could practically feel the aches at the thought of it. Was he trying to make up for something he felt he did wrong? He had been acting stranger than usual—if only she could pinpoint when it began.

Upon entering the flat, Molly's eyes landed upon a bag on the desk. She only had a moment to peek inside before Sherlock appeared before her. "Sherlock, why is there lingerie in here?"

His face blanched. Okay, he had to tell her. The words came out perfectly in his head.

_"Well, you see, Molly, I'm only preparing you for the next step in our relationship. What I mean to say is, Molly, darling, I want us to have a baby."_

Simple, right? Sherlock opened his mouth, but the words he had planned did not come out. "I'm having an affair."

Molly snorted in amusement. "No, you're not." If there was one thing she knew for a fact, it was that Sherlock Holmes was not the adulterous type.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was worth a try."

"What is going with you, Sherlock?" she asked, her voice soft. It wasn't until she listed the incidents that it hit her. "The children's books, the baby toys, and the"—Molly lifted the scrap of cloth from within the bag—"maternity lingerie?"

"And the flowers that signified fertility," he added.

Molly raised an eyebrow at him. Her face softened as she put it all together. "Sherlock." She took his hand in hers. "What were you going to ask me that day in the morgue? Tell me."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I was wondering how you felt about having children," he finally admitted. "Ever since that Sunday with you and Rosie, I've been wanting—no—needing a baby of our own. A family of our own."

Molly bit at her lip as she smiled. "Oh, you silly man," she laughed. "Of course, I want a family with you…I just didn't think it was something you wanted."

Sherlock pulled her close, his lips pressing fervently against hers. "This is what I want," he murmured in between kisses. "I want you—I need—"

She never found out what he needed, guiding him backwards toward their bedroom. Molly could hardly wait until no barrier existed between them. Regardless of how long they'd been together, they never tired of one another. Clothes were quickly shed, love was made so gently, yet fiercely. There was most likely no chance with the first real try, but oh, it would be fun to try again. And again. And again.

Hours later, a clatter awoke Molly from her slumber. Sherlock mumbled to not worry about it, but she planned to investigate. She threw on his blue dressing gown. It sounded as if it came from the upstairs bedroom. Molly climbed the stairs cautiously, and upon reaching the door, quietly turned the knob.

She gasped at the sight. In a pile in the middle of the room were parts of a crib. Sherlock had tried to put it together, but something must have been missing since it fell into a heap. "I love you," she whispered, her heart soaring.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her from behind, startling her at first. "I love you too, Molly." He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, lingering there as he spoke again. "Happy Anniversary."

* * *

_Three Months Later_

Sherlock Holmes walked into the morgue, ready to attend the autopsy that Molly was performing on the newest interesting murder victim. His lips automatically turned up into a smile, ready to greet her. "Molly, I may have a theory about—" Sherlock staggered back. "You're not Molly."

"Oh, no, sorry," the assistant pathologist—Dave? Daniel?—replied. "She didn't come in today; called in sick. Shouldn't you have known that though? Being her husband and all."

"I've been out all morning." Sherlock handed him a card. "Text me if you find anything worthwhile." He left the morgue, making his way through the hospital corridors when Greg stopped him.

"Sherlock, aren't you staying for the autopsy?" he asked.

"Molly's not here—called in sick. I'm heading home to see if she's alright," Sherlock explained. "I'll come back if there's anything worth coming back for."

* * *

Molly stared at the two pink lines on the pregnancy test. After a rather rough round of morning sickness, she called in sick for the day, still not feeling one hundred percent well. She was absolutely over the moon, though! And Sherlock—he would be ecstatic over the news! Molly couldn't wait to tell him. She had considered leaving hints, but remembered how well that went when Sherlock tried to give her hints.

When her husband finally came through the door, he looked concerned when he spotted her on the sofa. "Molly, are you alright? What are your symptoms? How severe is it? Have you—"

"Sherlock, I'm fine," Molly smiled sweetly. He tended to go overboard whenever she was sick, and though it was smothering at times, she loved it. "Come here, my love."

He walked over, sitting down beside her, taking her hands in his. "What is it, Molly?"

She said nothing, but instead, guided one of his hands to her belly. "I'm pregnant, Sherlock." His face morphed from one of concern to one of utter joy.

"You're—"

She nodded.

"We're—"

"Yes," she reassured him.

His lips claimed hers in such sweet devotion, his hands cradling her waist gently. He dipped her backwards slowly as their kisses grew fervent. Sherlock eventually trailed his lips along her jaw and down her neck, burying his face in the crook of it, the scent of her cherry vanilla shampoo overwhelming his senses. "Molly," he breathed out. "Oh, Molly. I love you."

"And I love you, Sherlock," she told him softly, her fingers buried in his curls. "Always."


End file.
